Bedtime Stories
by TappinCastlefan
Summary: "He can't let this one go. He can't just be okay with knowing that there's more to their story." - Post "The Time of Our Lives"


He knows it's stupid and he knows he's used it as an excuse before but he's a mystery writer. He's compelled to see how the story ends.

They both know that there are things they've never told each other – he's resigned himself to the fact that there are some parts of her life that he may never understand but will always find fascinating. She's his favorite mystery, and he loves it.

But for some reason, he can't let this one go. He can't just _be okay_ with knowing that there's more to _their_ story.

They've been back from their real honeymoon – the island getaway after the western retreat – for just a couple of days and he's still itching with the not-knowing.

He carefully pulls himself from his place wrapped around her, tugs the heavy winter comforter over her shoulders in place of his arms. For a beat he prays that he can escape his reputation as a bit of a klutz long enough to slip quietly from the room.

Thanking some higher power he clicks the door shut behind himself and turns on the desk lamp, casting a soft but just-bright-enough light over the office while the city sleeps outside. Looking at the wall of shelves, his eyes pass title over title until he makes it to his own works.

But those are his copies.

He wants hers.

They're sitting on the next shelf to the right, creating the bookshelf version of déjà vu, he thinks, with his copies preceding her much more worn and well-read editions. He almost feels like an idiot for not putting two and two together. As far as he can remember the last time they discussed her being a fan of his books was right after they met. He hadn't even given it a second thought when she moved in and the books took up residence on their shelves.

_Their_ shelves.

The problem with his mission, he realizes, is that he has no idea which book it is he's looking for. All the other-Beckett, as he's taken to calling her in his head, told him was that it was a Derrick Storm book.

So he starts at the beginning.

* * *

><p>She jerks awake when her body somehow notices that she's alone in the bed. It's been happening less and less but once in an odd night she wakes and has to remind herself that he's alright. She can see the light under the crack of the door leading to the office and considers leaving him alone. He may be writing and she staunchly refuses to interrupt him when he is.<p>

_Just because you interfere with my job doesn't mean I need to return the favor_, she told him early on in their relationship.

It's silly, she knows, smiling to herself, thinking of him just feet away from their bed creating a whole other world that she loves just as much as reality.

But when she listens closely, it's too quiet for him to be working. No tapping of fingers on keys. She lets the sheets slip to the floor as she steps from the bed, hoping that she's not going to find him asleep at a horrible angle behind his desk.

So, she's intrigued when she finds him sitting on the floor in front of the bookcase with his own books surrounding him.

"Hey," she starts.

"Hey," he mutters back, not shifting his eyes from the pages he's apparently inspecting.

"What uh…what are you doing?" She wraps her arms around herself as she pulls up a piece of floor beside him. She leans her cheek against his shoulder, taking in the warmth while trying to figure out why he's awake at two in the morning reading his own novels. "Derrick Storm?" She asks.

"Yeah," he sighs. "You're….going to think I'm crazy."

A laugh bobs in her throat, "It doesn't take much to do that, Castle."

"That's what I mean."

Her brow furrows, arms wrap around his torso as she leans in to kiss his cheek. "What's wrong?"

"I told you, you're going to think I'm crazy."

"Just…tell me? You've been sleeping better and this…worries me."

He lets out his own laugh, closing the book so that she can see the cover.

_Storm Rising._

She notices the fraying edge of the book's dust jacket, the way the corners have scrunched and pressed back after trips in purses and suitcases. It's her book.

"I told you what I saw when I was…passed out," he starts, rolling eyes at himself.

"Yeah…you said it was us if we had never met."

"Yeah. Well, the other _you_ said something to me and I just couldn't get it out of my head." Pausing, he opens the book again, to the title page with the words printed in bold, his own signature scrawled underneath.

_For Kate, _

_Richard Castle_

That's all. That's all he wrote and he's dumbfounded by it. There are no pithy remarks, no hopeful sentiment. Not even a 'thank you.' _For Kate_, was all he wrote.

And he doesn't even remember.

"She said that we had met before, when she – you – waited in line to have one of my books signed. I knew it was crazy but I had to see if it was….real."

She hums into the soft cotton of his shirt, her fingers somehow finding his against the back of the book. "Yeah," she sighs, almost to herself. "It was our favorite. Mine and my mom's. She loved your books, Castle. I'm…sorry I've never told you that."

"No," he stops her. "No, don't be."

"For a while I never told you because I was…I don't know, embarrassed or something. But then, it just didn't seem to matter."

"You don't have to tell me, you know. I was just being nosy."

"It's fine. I should've told you."

They sit side-by-side for a few minutes, both looking at his writing sloping over the page and thinking about book signings, before he decides he wants to know.

He wants to know the story.

"So, how was I?"

She giggles. "You were…sweet," she says softly. "A little bit as annoying as you were when I arrested you, but sweet. I told you how much I loved the book and you nodded, smiled, said you were glad I enjoyed it and asked my name. And that was it."

"I wish I could remember it," he huffs.

"Castle," she laughs, "it was years ago. Years before we _really_ met. There was no reason for you to remember one pathetic 20 year-old."

"You weren't pathetic."

"Yeah, I was. Castle, that was just a couple of months after my mom died and I had no idea what I was doing. But, your books made me feel better. Like she and I still had something to share."

"You know, wanting to hold onto that with your mom? That's not pathetic. And I'm glad that I could be there for you then…even if I couldn't be."

She smiles despite the lingering pain that still hits when she thinks about that time in her life, and she lets him pull her tighter into his side. This writer who has been giving her hope since long before he ever knew who she was.

He hands her the book before moving to return the rest of them to their shelf, saying something about getting back to bed and having to get up for work in the morning. She's still staring down at _Storm Rising_, not really paying attention to him at all until he goes to take it away from her.

"No," she stops him. "I think I'm going to read this one again."

"Really?" His face lights up, like a little boy pleased that the gift he slaved over is actually liked. He takes her free hand, pulls her to stand and takes one careful step backwards to look at her.

"Yeah," she smiles. "It's been a while. And I told you," she shrugs, "It's my favorite. Read with me?" She asks him, nodding to the bedroom behind them.

"Always," he answers, letting her grab his hands and tug.

It doesn't take much force to get him to follow.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you liked! Got another fluffy one on the way (hopefully) shortly.<strong>

**Tappin  
>=)<strong>


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